I am from crinkly leaves in October left behind.
I am from growing watermelon near the back porch, my father skipping his leather chappal sideways along the grass at rabbits daring to raid.
I am from mesquite and cholla, bottlebrush and wolfberry, teddy bear, jumping, spiny, leaves folded against the sun in supplication.
I am from slithery scales and dry, smooth coils undulating tracks across washboard roads.
I am the turkey vulture landing heavily to check the scene,
the tarantula with the misfortune to blunder into the kitchen,
the scorpion fast enough to dart away.
I am from walking barefoot through sprinklers on the golf course and pausing under the weeping willow, alien and parched.
I am in the stunted grape vines, and the pear tree that refused to bear, and the heavy black fig that bore until the sparrows were sated.
I am from the sour apricot in the bare western patch of yard,
and the woodpile sheltering black widows gleamingly in its crevices.
I am from saguaro and joshua tree,
and shimmering water mirages on a blacktop playground.
I am from mulberry trees over rustling blue shade.
I am from monsoon-lashed windows and the skylight that leaked in every storm.
And sometimes, in a rare freeze, I am from icicles pointing from the red tile roof.
This is after a poem by George Ella Lyon. I wrote it in a folklore workshop, where we were given her poem as a prompt to start us thinking of and writing about where we’re from.
It’s a rich question – one that can pull a poem right out of your heart’s archives.
Where are you from? I want to hear.
Your poems and prosems are welcome here in the writing room of my house.
This space is like a Quaker meeting that is happening in my living room. Honored guests, please speak as you are moved to. And let’s be awesome to each other, because graciousness among friends is why we hang out together.